


Better Than This

by yeaka



Series: Eye of a Prize [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Self-Lubrication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-18 23:31:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7335424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eönwë is there for different reasons, but Maglor regrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sorry

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is set in the same ‘unwanted!omega-refuge!Imladris’ setting as An Echinops Abacus, but it’s in no way necessary to read that for this. Pairing voted by BangtanAndAngband, hwarinn, violet-iron, and fionwe--urion [here.](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/146581537895/tolkien-abo)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, or The Silmarillion or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There’s no one else in Imladris, with the exception, perhaps, of Elrond, that Maglor feels as close to as Maedhros, and he _knows_ when his brother’s sadness has burst. Across the distance of several walls and trees, Maglor knows that Maedhros is _happy_ , like neither of them have been in far too long. Maglor shares this happiness—not to the same magnitude—but enough that he’s genuinely pleased for Maedhros.

And yet, without Maedhros’ reassuring presence at his side, there’s little left to keep his fears at bay. The heat in him is cloying its way to the surface, encasing all his nerves until he can’t play his harp, can hardly speak, can barely think. He runs his hands through his long hair and wonders who it will be this time to loom over him at night and mean nothing in the morning. 

He could call Maedhros back. It stalled the inevitable, only a bandage and not a cure, but it was _something_ , and he knows Maedhros would come if he called. He doesn’t have the heart to interject. So instead he heads to the only other elf he has. 

He stands outside the door of Elrond’s study and wonders if even this is worth it. There’s nothing Elrond can do save call other alphas to come. He’s taken lovers in the past, let whoever wanted to ravish him do so while he was too aroused to care, but that’s never his first choice. He doesn’t want to bond, wouldn’t burden anyone with his sins. Elrond might’ve offered once, but he wouldn’t have taken it, and it’s no longer an option. But Elrond is a healer. There may be other ways. Ways newly discovered that Maglor hasn’t heard of. Elrond has strange friends from far away places; anything’s possible. Finally, he twists the handle. 

He should knock. He knows that even as it’s too late. His heat’s ruined his manners.

Maglor slips into Elrond’s office and halts immediately, breath catching at the other occupant. 

It’s been some time since he’s seen Eönwë. He was sure it wouldn’t happen again and almost hoped for that; he didn’t know then, nor now, what he can say to possibly explain himself. Eönwë seems to glow around his edges, a Maia of pure _light_ with soft hair and softer eyes, white robes and a cape that looks like a set of doves’ wings down his back. He speaks to Elrond with Maedhros’ name on his lips—perhaps the pardon that neither brother deserves—and then he quiets and turns to look at Maglor. 

Maglor forgets his question. His knees are already shaky, so it’s easy to drop to them. He hits the floor and crumbles forward, all his black hair slipping over his shoulders to pool along the carpet. His father, Maedhros even, would never approve of this. But Maglor’s spent and done with that and opens his mouth to beg, “Eönwë, I am so _sorry_.” He doesn’t even say for what. He’s not sure he can recount it in front of Elrond. He can’t express with words the depth of his regret. 

He might be trembling, likely from the heat but maybe from sheer shame. Two gentle hands take hold of his shoulders to steady him, one sliding along his neck and catching in his hair, cupping his cheek. The touch is an instant spark of _desire_. Eönwë is no alpha, but he is far greater. Eönwë slips nimble fingers beneath Maglor’s chin and tilts him up to look. 

It might as well be Manwë himself for all of Maglor’s guilt. But Eönwë is the face of it, the one Maglor saw, the one who offered Maglor salvation only to be refused. Eönwë is the embodiment of the light he doesn’t deserve, how far he’s fallen. Eönwë wears a simple frown and says nothing at first, just returns his grip to Maglor’s arms and begins to tug him up. 

If he had his way, Maglor would stay on the floor, just to not have to look at everything he lost. But he doesn’t have it in him to defy Eönwë again, and he lets Eönwë help him to his feet. He feels no better. Eönwë leaves his hands on Maglor, turns to look at Elrond, and then comes back to tilt Maglor’s face slowly from side to side, examining it. Looking as confused as a Maia is capable, he asks, “What is wrong?”

Eönwë’s hands on him are wrong. He feels like they should burn him like the Silmaril, and they do burn in a different way, a sort of soothing pleasure that makes Maglor’s eyelids fall. A hefty inhale, and he can breathe again, the tremors dying out, but the fire’s still in him. He doesn’t answer, hoping Elrond will. 

Then Eönwë’s hand, coalesced into a form so very like Maglor’s own, brushes along the side of his face again, and the intimacy of it, intentional or not, is too much to take. He makes a choked noise and pulls back, jerking out of Eönwë’s hands, infinitely grateful when Elrond rushes to come between them. He half catches Maglor and steadies him. To Eönwë, Elrond sighs, “I feared this; his heat is coming.”

There’s a small silence, and then Eönwë murmurs, “The discomfort is a cruel burden on already troubled creatures.” One Maglor might deserve. Perhaps it’s a push to bond, and that proves the logic of Eru’s choice to give him this; perhaps if he’d had an alpha to keep him in check, he wouldn’t have committed quite so many atrocities. 

It takes a moment for Maglor to gather himself, but he does—he’s strong, experienced, and he’s persevered through far worse pain. He straightens himself in Elrond’s hold, though Elrond keeps to his side, and Eönwë asks him softly, “How have you been?” Tired and lonely, and that must show on Maglor’s face, because Eönwë switches to, “Do you still play your harp?”

He nods. Not lately, but he does when he can. He can’t manage words. Pity crosses Eönwë’s face, and Maglor feels weak again.

Elrond drapes a hand around his back and suggests, “Perhaps we should discuss this at a later time.” Eönwë gives a curt nod, and Maglor resists dropping his weight into Elrond’s sturdy embrace.

Elrond helps guide him to the door, and the irony isn’t lost on Maglor. Once, he was the stronger creature, raising a younger Elrond, though he ultimately failed in his duties. Now Elrond has grown into a strong, wise alpha, a lord of wondrous lands, and protectively takes him to his chambers. 

They feel empty, as they often do. Too large. The sun hasn’t quite set, and it feels too early, but Elrond helps Maglor to the bed anyway. Elrond removes Maglor’s sandals and loosens his robes, though Maglor mumbles, “I will be fine.” He won’t. Elrond dotes on him anyway, face kind and set. Better to Maglor than Maglor deserves. The heat does strange things with him, spikes his emotions and drags out old wounds. He wants to apologize and beg forgiveness, but he knows Elrond will say the same thing he always does—judgment is for the Valar. Elrond never held any grudges against Maglor. There’s a split second where the broiling heat in him takes over and there’s nothing left, and Maglor wants Elrond to be the one to claim him, to climb into his bed right now, forget that their love is a different kind and runs too deep to disturb. But Maglor can smell Lindir on him, and the desire recedes. 

“Sleep,” Elrond tells him, tucks him under the covers and pulls them up high.

Maglor licks his drying lips and promises, “I will try.”

Elrond nods. There’s a pitcher of water across the room on a tray of glasses, and Elrond crosses to pour one and bring it to the nightstand. When it’s set down, Elrond asks what Maglor knew was coming: “If the pain becomes too great, who shall I send to ease it?”

Maglor doesn’t know. At this point, hardly cares. He trusts Elrond and murmurs, “Whoever you think is best.” Elrond nods. He’ll choose well.

He bends to press a kiss to Maglor’s forehead and bids, “Sleep well.”

When he leaves, Maglor is free to roll over into his bed, bury his shame in the pillows and sheets, and muffle the cries that a searing emptiness wracks through him.


	2. Safe

There is no sleep for him.

He lies awake long after he’s left there, sensing, far more than usual, the sea of omegas around him and the few pinpricks of alpha pheromones, this one claimed and that one unsuitable. He spends much of his time with gritted teeth and clenched fists and a rigid body, more time rutting into the mattress and resisting the urge to touch himself—it won’t help, will only make the need worse. He tries not to run through options—who he can ask to take him. Elladan and Elrohir will be offered, but they may as well be his grandchildren given his feelings for Elrond, and that thought’s out of the question—Glorfindel, but how can he ask that after all the tragic events in Glorfindel’s life that Maglor’s family set in motion? Aragorn, perhaps: another step-grandchild; any of the dwarves that visit—Maedhros would chuckle fondly at that. Círdan might be able to come from the havens in time, but Maglor knows it would pain Elrond to see him brought back to the sea. He even thinks of Maedhros’ alpha—they share everything, mean so much to each other, so few others left, and Maedhros, most likely, would let him, but even in this desperation, Maglor can’t do that to his brother. He lets out a growl of mingled pain and irritation and rolls abruptly around, twisting in the sheets, and tries to think of other things.

Food. He has no appetite. Song. He can’t play. The gardens, the river, then Voronwë dripping wet against the shore, and he wonders how many omegas he would have to fuck to fill the shoes of one alpha, but he knows it won’t be enough—Maglor wants to be _taken_ , pinned down and _ravished_ , wants to be dominated and taken care of. His father would tell him he has noble enough blood to be an honorary alpha of his own, but without Fëanor’s more convincing voice to say it in, the lie feels parchment-thin.

He misses Valinor more than he’d care to admit. He wishes he’d taken heed of Eönwë’s advice, had found the strength himself to hold Maedhros back, to take them both to trial. It’s too late for that. For a brief moment, regret consumes him more than yearning. He thinks of Eönwë’s handsome form, sewn in the model of a warrior and dressed in the silks of a lord, and that mental picture alone makes Maglor squirm beneath the sheets.

He should apologize again, he thinks—he isn’t sure that Eönwë heard him. He should apologize _properly_ , submit himself for punishment without Elrond there to witness. Elrond would see him pardoned, but Elrond’s heart is too kind. The thought of relief from his guilt, even more than relief from his heat, draws him out of bed. He takes two hazy steps towards the door, guided more by instinct than the pale light of the stars outside his windows, before he realizes how inappropriate he looks.

The laces of his sandals suddenly seem unduly complicated. He tightens his sash and tries to pull his robes tighter around himself, but his skin _burns_ , and he can’t coordinate his hands enough to do up all the buttons. His collar stays open, the top of his chest bared. He’s sure his hair is a mess from tossing and turning, but he doesn’t have the patience to brush or braid it. He takes deep breaths and a shaky drink of water, then heads for the door.

It’s not too late to go to Maedhros. But he’s sure that Maedhros is enjoying his own alpha after far too long apart, and he can’t interrupt that. It would be too cruel, even if they would both insist otherwise and stop to hold him. It’s a pleasant fantasy but no more.

He stumbles through the dark corridor outside, passing rooms of omegas he knows and a beta or two that won’t be enough, and for a moment, his feet want to head to Elrond’s quarters. They’re too far. He passes an alpha’s room—a visitor he doesn’t know—and stops to savour the feeling of it, what little he can sense through the closed door, and almost slips inside. He tells himself he has more dignity than that, but he knows that in another day or two, dignity won’t mean a thing. He moves on, down a flight of stairs, and catches a strange cloud—nothing like the pheromones he’s used to, almost an emptiness, devoid of worldly touch, and yet a spark of _something_ that fills him full of longing. 

He knows it’s Eönwë’s room and lifts a shaking hand to knock, wondering if Maiar even sleep.

The door opens almost immediately. Eönwë stands behind it, as tall and grand as ever, his gold-fire hair tumbling down white-covered shoulders. His clear eyes take Maglor in all at once, and before Maglor can explain himself, Eönwë nods and steps aside.

Maglor walks in as gracefully as he can, but the minute the door’s closed, he’s losing it again. This isn’t how he would’ve had their reunion, but that was never his choice. Eönwë steps around him to perch on the side of the bed, still made, and Maglor has nothing to say.

He slinks to his knees all over again, sitting at Eönwë’s feet, half to show subservience and half because he can’t hold himself up any longer. “I am sorry,” he blurts, in another inadequate sweep. “I am so sorry. To all the Valar, the Maiar, and to you especially, who offered me a hand that I was fool enough to refuse.”

“You are your father’s son,” Eönwë says simply, though Maglor’s not sure what that can mean to a Maia—surely, they have no offspring. Maglor grew under and idolized his father, but that was long ago, and evidently, he’s grown no better since. Eönwë seems to wait for more, and Maglor swallows, then repeats a muttered apology that he can’t even hear himself; his ears are ringing with his heat and shame.

The longer Maglor kneels, the more he says, a slew of the same words in different configurations, not conscious of what’s coming out of his mouth but just compelled to _say it_ , and he only stops when Eönwë cuts him off with a quiet, “Hush.” 

Then Maglor lifts his head, sees Eönwë now as a god of the moon instead of sun, and listens. “I do not speak for the Valar in this, but for what you aim to me directly, I forgive you.” Maglor’s mouth falls open. He wanted that but somehow didn’t expect it, and Eönwë continues so easily, “I think you have suffered long enough, and you have humbled yourself as few of the Noldor would. I forgive you.”

Like before, Eönwë bends down to help lift Maglor up. This time, Maglor needs the help, and when he’s on his feet, Eönwë turns him to the bed. To be seated on a Maia’s bed feels both thrilling and nerve-wracking, but Maglor doubts it means to Eönwë what it would mean to any other. Yet Eönwë sits so very _close_ , and he turns their bodies to face one another, hand resting on Maglor’s leg and gently thumbing him through his robes: a soothing movement. There’s something in his power that works as well as an alpha, and that comfort does ease Maglor enough to think coherently again. He meets Eönwë’s gaze for a moment, then lowers his eyes. Coming here might’ve been a bad idea.

“What will happen to you?”

Why Eönwë would care, Maglor can’t guess, but rolls his shoulders awkwardly and tries to explain anyway, “I will have to find whoever will take me. I have... no preference in this place. Elrond will choose well.”

“He is good,” Eönwë agrees, “despite the horrors he was raised through.” Maglor winces, though there’s no accusation in Eönwë’s voice. When Maglor says nothing else, Eönwë adds, “You are very beautiful, Kanafinwë, and you have always been quite talented. Whoever receives you will treasure you.” Maglor isn’t so sure, but looks up for the _beautiful_ comment all the same. To be called that by someone as perfectly forged as Eönwë is almost laughable, and he’s both surprised and pleased to hear that Eönwë even remembers his craft. Eönwë dons a small smile and sighs, “There is good in you yet. There has also been great darkness, but it cannot all be attributed to you—you were sent out into the world too young, too eager, unbound with no one but your father to guide you. Omegas so powerful and willful as you and your brothers should not be unleashed so.”

Once, Maglor would’ve bitterly countered that, claimed that he doesn’t need to be _leashed_ , but now he wonders if the Valar made elves in pairs for a reason—a second eye, like he was for Maedhros when they faced their final choice, might’ve done him good. Perhaps at the torn look on Maglor’s face, Eönwë rephrases, “You were given great responsibility for one yet incomplete, with nowhere private to release your fire, and it was too much to ask alone. You cannot carry all the blame for what you are.”

Maglor swallows and nods, merely because it’s a Maia that tells him this. Otherwise, he would say that his father and brothers were that release, and they were never alone. Not even at the end. But perhaps that’s why bonding alphas and omegas so rarely prove related. Despite what he would’ve once considered an insult, Maglor murmurs, “Thank you.”

And then a shudder wracks him again, and he pitches forward, only caught from tumbling to the floor by Eönwë’s arms. Eönwë holds him, pulls him back and turns him, draws him in, and Maglor is gently cradled in Eönwë’s lap. His legs bend over Eönwë’s thighs, his face turning to burry in Eönwë’s shoulder; he presses in and thickly inhales what awaits him: the rush of an _alpha_ , even if this isn’t quite the real thing, can’t be—Maiar have no need to be bound. Eönwë strokes long fingers through Maglor’s hair and murmurs, “Shhh, be well.”

Maglor wants to obey.

It’s not enough.

Eönwë’s cheek presses into Maglor’s, and Maglor _moans_ , far to lewd for the presence of a deity, but he can’t stop himself. Eönwë smells _so good_ , feels so _strong_ —he was told, when he was young, that being held in Fëanor’s arms would doom him, because no one else would ever be as great. Eönwë surpasses the memory as only a Maia could. Even when Maglor stifles a whimper and bucks his hips into Eönwë’s stomach, Eönwë only draws him closer, kisses his forehead and makes a soothing nose that seems to twist bristling _comfort_ down Maglor’s spine.

But he doesn’t _want_ comfort. He wants to be _filled_ , wants to be stripped and tasted, not placated. He presses his face into Eönwë’s, chasing the smell, and to his horror, opens his mouth, lightly biting into Eönwë’s jaw, not pressing in his teeth but just licking. He tries to run to Eönwë’s mouth, is _ashamed of himself_ , but _wants_ so badly. Eönwë carefully turns his head away, to which Maglor growls like a hound. 

Then he remembers himself, shut his eyes and hisses, “I am sorry.”

“I am not an alpha,” Eönwë answers, though that doesn’t seem to matter now. All Maglor’s other heats, it was the only thing that did. 

Now he opens his eyes again and begs, “Please, I do not care—you are the only one that can truly offer me salvation, that can ease my pain, not just of this...” _This_ is what eats him now, but _that_ eats him all other nights. He yearns for Eönwë’s forgiveness more than anything else, and even though Eönwë’s given it, it’s not enough, Maglor wants to hear it again and again, to _know_ it. 

Eönwë strokes through his hair more, then stops to take hold of his chin. Maglor lets his face be tilted, lets Eönwë examine his dilated eyes, his flushed cheeks, his breathless mouth. Eönwë mutters, perhaps half to himself, “ _So beautiful_.”

Maglor never cared much for his looks. He could’ve done without all the alphas that came to claim the great minstrel, the mighty Fëanor’s last remaining beauty, and circled around him with hungry eyes and no care for anything else. A lesser lord than Elrond might’ve shipped him off. Maglor’s tired enough that he might’ve let them. Now, he’s infinitely grateful that he has _something_ that can please this divine being wrapped around him. 

Finally, Eönwë nods, and he shifts out from under Maglor, moving back to sit against the headboard. Maglor doesn’t understand, until Eönwë offers a hand and bids, “Come here, pretty songbird.”

The nickname, half pleasant though it is, twists Maglor’s stomach. He’s not sure if it benefits him to be thought of so quaintly. He’s at least grateful that Eönwë can think of him for his music instead of his atrocities.

He crawls forward on all fours, until he’s close enough for Eönwë to take hold of his hips and draw him in. He’s brought straddle Eönwë’s lap again, knees digging into the pillows on either side, hands resting on Eönwë’s shoulders. He desperately wants to tug away Eönwë’s robe, but he forces himself to behave. Eönwë smiles softly at him, as though Eönwë can see his struggle and approves of his restraint. Eyes staying locked with Maglor’s, Eönwë deftly unfastens Maglor’s sash and draws it aside. All the buttons are undone, and nothing’s left to hold the thick fabric together. Eönwë begins to part Maglor’s robes, opening them wide and draping them over his thighs. Maglor isn’t embarrassed at his nakedness—the heat makes it feel _right_ —though he does wonder how he can possibly gain a Maiar’s approval. He asks, uncertain and nearly shaking with excitement, “Are you going to...?”

“You may ride me,” Eönwë announces, now dropping his gaze to run down Maglor’s chest, take in the slope of his stomach and the rise of his cock, hard since this afternoon, kept engorged in his condition. “I cannot say if this will satisfy you, but it would be remiss of me, after all I spent on thought of your redemption and return, if I allowed you to suffer so.” Then his eyes flicker back up, and he adds, “Unless, of course, you would prefer another.”

Maglor shakes his head hard enough to scatter his hair. He can hardly believe his ears. It doesn’t seem possible that Eönwë could’ve possibly spared him a single thought. He feels wildly _lucky_. He lifts his hips, rising off Eönwë’s thighs, completely ready—his hole’s been wet for hours, stretched and occasionally flexing, he needs _something_ in him so badly, and there are instruments for that, but he hadn’t the nerve to obtain any, and now nothing compares to the though of _Eönwë_. Eönwë slips two hands over Maglor’s thighs, traces up and scoops around, beneath the robes, to caress his rear. Eönwë presses lightly in for a moment, then squeezes, and Maglor gasps, rocking forward and back into them. Eönwë’s touches are explorative but still skilled. 

“I have, at times, experimented with this aspect of these forms,” he confides, like reading Maglor’s thoughts. “But they were not like this.” In what way, he doesn’t explain. He merely withdraws his hands—to Maglor’s irritation—and begins on the clasps of his robes.

This Maglor tries to concentrate for, tries to focus through the haze of _need_ so he can memorize the sight of Eönwë’s bare skin. Eönwë parts his white robes straight down the front, revealing a broad expanse of flawless caramel skin pulled taut over tight muscles, a line of golden hair starting below his navel and dipping to his crotch. Maglor isn’t sure what he was expecting—he never presumes on genitals and would do so even less for a Maia—but it’s a thick cock that rises out to meet him, long and bulbous, veins twisting beneath the surface and a pink flush to the tip. Maglor looks at it in awe and feels a swell of _thirst_ in him. He wishes he’d thought to beg for this in Valinor.

Usually wise and well-planned, Maglor is slow tonight, and he needs to be guided—he doesn’t think to do anymore until Eönwë takes hold of his hips and guides him forward. He’s held over Eönwë’s cock, and Eönwë pauses to ask him, “I have no wish to hurt you, Kanafinwë. Are you wet?”

Maglor mumbles, “Soaking.” His tone is strangely reverent. Even with how empty he feels, how much he’s trying to stretch, he’s not sure all of Eönwë’s girth and length will fit. He wants to find out. He lets Eönwë gently lower his hips, pressing him down. The head of Eönwë’s cock nudges at his entrance, pushes against the squelch of natural lubrication, and then it pops inside and Maglor cries out, shuddering in Eönwë’s grip to try and shoot down and take it all at once. Eönwë holds him still and guides him lower at a steady pace. He’s filled bit-by-bit, excruciatingly slow. His walls are parted, breached deeper, and there’s a slight twinge of pain at the stretch, but that’s quickly engulfed again in Maglor’s lust and the pleasure at being _filled_. Normally, an alpha that sensed an omega in heat would throw them down and ram into them, ravage them at once, but Eönwë is leisurely and careful.

It seems to take forever for Maglor to be completely full. Even when he’s at the base, he tries to press his weight down, tries to take more, but he’s taken everything Eönwë has to give, and it’s _so much_ , stretches him nearly past capacity—it’s dizzying, wonderful. Maglor squeezes his ass around it and is delighted when Eönwë’s breath hitches. He does it again, again, flexing his ass around the shaft inside him and enjoying every little ridge, every ripple, the way it seems to throb inside him. Eönwë just holds him down and reaches to swipe a few black strands behind Maglor’s pointed ear. 

As soon as Eönwë loosens his grip, Maglor rises, but he’s caught Eönwë’s eyes and is captured by that gaze. He can’t seem to move as fast as he wants, but goes at the gradual pace set by his lover. He lifts high and goes back down again, rocking in to the hilt and grinding to savour it, then lifts to repeat. Eönwë smiles with approval.

Maglor wants to be kissed. He wants to be enveloped, wants his nipples pulled, his cock tied, his legs in the air and his ass smacked with bruising force. But he can’t do any of it, and Eönwë merely holds his hip, occasionally eyes the rest of him but doesn’t bother to touch, and he doesn’t want to risk moving his own hands from Eönwë’s shoulders. So he only rises and falls, steadily riding Eönwë’s cock all on his own. It still feels good, _very_ good, exquisite, more than he deserves. It’s not the usual alpha-fully-using-the-situation but more a calm experiment, a regal lord benevolently allowing Maglor to hump himself out like a dog. Maglor’s fallen enough that he allows it, even enjoys it. Even if it’s motivated by pity or curiosity, Maglor’s pleased that it’s Eönwë’s body he takes. It feels strangely _right _somehow, that he should be impaling himself on Eönwë’s cock. He can feel himself spilling little noises, gasps and moans and whines, and Eönwë accepts it all in calm silence, occasionally stroking Maglor’s skin but little else.__

__It seems to go on and on, a blissful pocket of infinite time, wherein Maglor’s entire life belongs to this, his only purpose to house Eönwë’s cock in his body. He wouldn’t escape if he could. Then Eönwë murmurs, “Sing for me.” His hips stutter up, and Maglor bounces, breath catching, but he doesn’t have the wherewithal to form a song._ _

__“Later,” he begs, knowing full well that he’ll obey if Eönwë still wishes it._ _

__“Later,” Eönwë concedes, “though your voice pleases me now. You mewl so sweetly.”_ _

__Maglor wouldn’t think so but doesn’t argue. He’s glad Eönwë likes him. He wants Eönwë to _love him_. He slouches closer, drapes himself over Eönwë’s body, curls in and rides Eönwë at the same pace, now entranced. His hard cock presses into Eönwë’s stomach, but he doesn’t try to rut and get himself off. Their rhythm’s overcome his chaos, and he obediently stays true to it. While he’s filled with _Eönwë_ , all Maglor feels is happiness._ _

__And then, when it’s been some time but feels much too soon, Maglor can feel his balls tightening. He wants to stop but can’t, and he ducks his forehead against Eönwë’s, gasping as he comes, his seed splattering Eönwë’s robes. Maglor can’t notice, can’t think, can’t breathe, just pitches himself steadily onto Eönwë’s cock and rides it out, milking himself, still not bothering to touch his cock. The orgasm is delicious. He nearly blacks out from the pleasure._ _

__He’s tired, so tired, when it starts to die out, though his head is on fire and it takes him some time to come down. He still faithfully takes Eönwë’s cock until Eönwë stills him. Maglor’s left to pant for air, tingling pleasantly._ _

__And feeling... _shocked_. Heavy but nearly clear-headed, Maglor looks up to mumble, “That... that was enough.” It satiated him, that single, gentle round. He’s overwhelmed but... better. His cock is even flagging, his skin cooling. _ _

__Eönwë hums, “How lovely you are,” and draws Maglor forward by the waist to kiss him. It’s their first kiss, too chaste, and over too soon._ _

__Maglor mutters, “It can’t have lasted more than a couple hours, and yet, I have had heats that lasted days...”_ _

__“Days?” Eönwë repeats, not without a hint of amusement. Maglor can only recall one time when his was ended within the same night, but it still took all of the day, and three alphas in his bed, always at least two using him at once, to wear him out—he was needed for a battle the next day, and his brothers sent him many options to make sure he would be satisfied and free by then. Eönwë tilts his head and comments, “You are very virile, even for a son of Fëanor. ...But those were elves, and I am not.”_ _

__That only makes Maglor wonder just how hard Eönwë _could_ fuck, how bruising the finger and teeth marks would be, if he would even be able to walk after. He’ll think of it another time. For now, he has nothing left._ _

__He doesn’t even have the strength to lift off Eönwë’s cock, though his rear’s becoming sore with it still inside him now that the thrill is gone. Eönwë picks him up, falls out, and sets Maglor beside him in the pillows. Maglor means to slink back to his own quarters._ _

__But instead, he curls up to Eönwë, and Eönwë kisses the top of his head and strokes him. He falls asleep there and dreams of having wings._ _


	3. Sound

He wakes encased in the sheets, curled tightly up and a mess of his own sweat and seed. He doesn’t so much yawn awake as gasp, coming from a running dream. Stretching out, Maglor accidentally kicks one of the blankets over the side and adjusts, groaning, to look.

His gaze sails right past the end of the bed and to the chair across the room. Eönwë sits in it, dressed the same as yesterday, just as pristine. A book’s open in his lap, but he closes it when he sees Maglor’s awake. Maglor doubts he’s ever blushed harder in his life.

The heat is gone, his mind blissfully clear, surreal compared to the normal slow burn of turmoil that follows. Eönwë truly is greater than any alpha. The raging lust is gone, but Maglor still finds Eönwë strikingly attractive, his interest now more innocent but still present. He mutters, “I am sorry for that.”

Eönwë sets the book on the nearby desk and rises from his chair. Maglor’s lived with Elrond long enough to know when his apologizes are about to be countered, so he continues before that can happen, “It was foolish of me. I knew what state I was in, and thus I am responsible for it. I should not have come to you so, should not have pleaded to drag you down into unholy pleasures—”

“Pleasure is neither holy nor otherwise,” Eönwë says simply as he takes his seat on the bed. His fingers stray along Maglor’s cheek, sweeping away the black strands stuck there with sweat. He sighs, just as last night, “You are very beautiful to wake to.”

Maglor feels like a wreck but doesn’t argue. Eönwë takes hold of his chin to keep him still and leans down to kiss his forehead, murmuring against it, “I have often wondered about the carnal pleasures of the first and second born and had yet to experience it to that extent. I quite enjoyed myself.” His smile is genuine and baffles Maglor; he would’ve never hoped to satisfy a Maia.

Eönwë takes one more idle round of Maglor’s face, tracing his jaw and stroking his skin, then withdraws to his shoulder and gives a short tug to the robes that still cling to him, completely parted and useless. Maglor rises as he’s bid, surprised at how well he feels. Usually, he has a wealth of aches and sores to recover from. He might’ve just experienced the easiest heat in history.

“Come,” Eönwë says, and as he steps away from the bed, Maglor follows, climbing out. When his feat touch the floor, Eönwë peels the last of Maglor’s robes away, leaving him utterly naked. He’s never been particularly embarrassed of his body but feels indecent now, in the presence of one so clean and grand, but Eönwë’s gaze holds only approval. Eönwë turns and heads off, Maglor automatically following.

Fortunately, Eönwë doesn’t guide him outside but to the attached washroom, where a bath is already filled with water, still, judging by the thin trails of steam that rise above, hot. It’s either very recent or heated with the magic of the Maiar, and Maglor doesn’t ask which is the case. Eönwë fetches a ribbon from the counter top and comes to stand behind Maglor, gather up all his dark hair and fastening it atop his head in a loose bun. A few stray hairs don’t quite make it, and the bulk is still a mess from all his writhing last night. He wishes he’d at least cleaned himself up before going to Eönwë, but he knows the heat wouldn’t have allowed it.

It’s strange to be ushered into the tub by someone, but Eönwë guides him over the rim, and Maglor is made to slip down against the cool brim, the water clear and warm. Then Eönwë fetches soaps, and Maglor flushes again—he hasn’t been bathed by another since he was a child, though he bathed Maedhros once after his Thangorodrim rescue, when Fingon was unable.

It’s something like that now: Eönwë’s touch is careful, tender, like wiping away a wound. He presses the bar against Maglor’s chest and draws it across, pressing just enough to create suds but still gentle. He molds to each bump and curve of Maglor’s body, kneeling outside the tub to caress Maglor’s chest, circle once around each nipple, not quite sensual but still intimate, and down into the water to follow his stomach. Maglor’s breath hitches, but Eönwë stalls around the base of Maglor’s cock no more than the rest of him, instead gliding right on to coat his inner thighs.

Maglor’s at a loss for words. This isn’t standard practice—un-bonded alphas rarely even stay past the omega falling asleep. Eönwë must know that, and yet he treats Maglor like a precious doll that must be properly tended to. It occurs to Maglor belatedly that this isn’t even returning a favour: he didn’t get Eönwë off last night.

He doesn’t even know if Maiar _can_ get off like that, yet Maglor finds himself glancing over the rim to eye Eönwë’s crotch. He could lean over now, he thinks, and take Eönwë in his mouth, without dirtying himself anymore. But Eönwë, either reading his thoughts or following his gaze, says, “That is not necessary.”

Maglor feels compelled, and beyond that, he _wants_ to. He opens his mouth to insist, but Eönwë returns to scrubbing Maglor’s legs and says, “Perhaps another time.” Maglor closes his mouth instantly.

_Another time._

That hadn’t even occurred to him as a possibility. Now he can’t look away from Eönwë, who diligently cleans all of Maglor’s front before bending him forward and soaping up his back. When all the grime of the heat’s been covered in suds, Eönwë scoops water over Maglor to wash the rest away. Maglor bends into each touch, confused but basking in the attention.

It’s definitely nice. He feels as though he’s been _alone_ so long, born and raised in such a large family with whole kingdoms and armies around him, only to be left as one of few survivors in an inhospitable land. Eönwë’s company is quiet, like his own, but genuine and reassuring. Maglor entertains a fond memory of when he was young, and his father had given him his first harp, and he played it on the front steps when Eönwë came to visit his grandfather. Eönwë had paused to tell Maglor that he was doing quite well, and Maglor, who still cherished and obeyed the Valar then, gushed his gratitude. He wonders now if it was foolish to think a Maia would forget anything.

Eventually, Eönwë’s soft touches die out, and he gestures for Maglor to rise again. Maglor follows and steps, dripping wet, out of the tub, into a fluffy white towel that Eönwë wraps around him. He doesn’t have to do a thing as Eönwë scrubs him dry and unties his hair again, then disappears into the bedroom. When Eönwë returns with an armful of new robes, deep purple with silver trim, Maglor asks, “Why are you doing this?” His voice almost cracks. Being nurtured is new for him and feels... difficult.

“I wished to see what it was like to take care of one being,” Eönwë answers, though Maglor doesn’t understand why. He lets Eönwë help him into the new robes, tug the fabric along his arms and fasten the clasps from neck to thigh, the skirts trailing all the way to the ground. It’ll hide the fact that Maglor left his sandals behind. 

He means to stay quiet but still says, “I do not deserve the care.” Eönwë simply sweeps Maglor’s hair over his shoulder and unceremoniously finger-combs it into place. Maglor soaks in the silence and tries to keep himself from falling too far into the pleasant domesticity of it.

Maglor must look to Eönwë’s liking after, because Eönwë nods curtly and turns, Maglor following once again. He’s lead back through Eönwë’s quarters and out into the hallway. Maglor’s glad when they find it empty—he feels like the shame is visible on his skin, and surely someone will soon find out that he begged sex from a god. If he were anyone else, he’d hang his head as they walked.

But he’s Maglor, son of Fëanor, and he presents himself strongly, keeping at a confident place behind his living tourniquet. They ultimately wind up in the breakfast hall, where Maglor has to silently steel himself over and fight to continue.

Eönwë strolls right to the head table, where Erestor is chatting with Glorfindel and Lindir is showing something on a scroll to Elrond. Maglor can’t bring himself to look for Maedhros; this feels like a betrayal. 

Eönwë ushers him into a seat beside Elrond, Eönwë taking the next over to seal him in. When Lindir withdraws to stand quietly again behind Elrond’s chair, Elrond spares Maglor a puzzled look, to which Maglor smiles. Elrond glances from him to Eönwë and seems to understand. Maglor half expects to be scolded at the table by his pseudo-son, but Elrond merely tells him, “I am glad you appear well.”

Maglor tightly nods and begins to eat the food that Eönwë scoops onto his plate. It’s almost as though Eönwë doesn’t realize that Maglor _has_ recovered and is still trying to soothe him. Maglor can’t seem to bring himself to turn away the doting, yet feels guilty for savouring it. 

He eats what he’s given and speaks little during breakfast, though the air buzzes around him. When he looks up too long, Maedhros manages to catch his eye, halfway across the hall and seated next to Fingon. Fingon gives him a smile, but Maedhros is swamped in concern. Then Fingon’s hand disappears beneath the table and Maedhros looks aside at him, turning slightly pink beneath the freckles, and Maglor appreciates the distraction. He’s not sure how he’ll explain to his oldest brother, the heir of their house, how far he lowered himself to a man they once took up arms against. 

Although, Maedhros likely needs the Valar’s pardon to stay with Fingon, and Eönwë does keep a subtle eye on them through breakfast. Though he knows it isn’t his place, Maglor murmurs for his brother, “They are complete together.”

Eönwë just looks at him, and Maglor doesn’t pursue it. He drinks more wine than water and wishes it affected him more than it does.

When breakfast is finished and most attending are streaming out of the hall, Eönwë stands and places a hand on Maglor’s chair. Though Maglor would follow anyway, Eönwë asks, “Will you come with me for a walk?” 

Given the choice, Maglor’s tempted to say no. Eönwë is becoming far too enjoyable, and Maglor’s lost enough to know not to get attached. But he finds himself nodding anyway and follows Eönwë out of the hall.

Their walk is as perfect as everything else has been together. Eönwë leads the way, though Maglor likely knows these lands better, and they’re quiet for the most part, simply taking in the crisp morning air and floral scents of the gardens. Then they gradually begin to speak of things, the events of both their lands, and though Maglor asks for it, it makes his heart constrict to hear of Valinor. The petty dealings he tells of Middle Earth seem insignificant by comparison, and he’s sure Eönwë must already know them already, but Eönwë listens politely nonetheless. At the fountain, Eönwë pauses.

Maglor does the same and turns to him, waiting for more to come. It doesn’t, and Eönwë’s gaze seems to say that Maglor is the one with things still to confess. It compels him to the truth, and he admits, “I... I would hope to see those shores again, though I know I have forfeited the right. Perhaps someday an alpha who has done more good than I have done bad will be able to tame me enough for the Valar to allow me back within that alpha’s shadow.” He’s had that thought before, but it’s always seemed shallow and remote.

Eönwë answers, “It is not about taming, although it seems the sons of Fëanor do need someone around them to still their swords. ...But if they can forgive Nelyafinwë, as I have come to oversee, than you may have hope... if that is truly what you hope for.”

“It is,” Maglor sighs, sure, in that moment, that his weariness is showing through. “I am... _tired_ of this world, of its troubles, of its memories. My body is that of an omega, but I have lived as an alpha in many ways, and I am all the more spent for it. Now I just wish to be...” He pauses, searching for the right word, and is surprised when the best match he can find is, “comforted.”

Eönwë’s head tilts. His tone is thoughtful as he muses, “I have seen many now on these shores. I have gained many ‘friends,’ though I was always prone to coming amongst your people. Perhaps that is why my halls, though made only as a facsimile of your homes, feel lonely to me now.” It’s Maglor’s turn to be confused. He doesn’t know why Eönwë’s telling him this. Then Eönwë sighs, “I think... it might be fitting if you would return with me.”

Maglor’s lips part, eyes widening. He almost takes a step back in his shock and somehow winds up muttering, “But I cannot be unleashed in Valinor—”

“I would see to your heats,” Eönwë counters, a thin smile now tugging at his lips. In the morning sunlight, it makes him irresistible. He takes a step closer, seeming to envelope Maglor in his sheer presence, and reaches out to hold Maglor’s hip and slide around his waist. Maglor, breathless, is brought forward. His body flattens into Eönwë’s, and Eönwë leans down, bringing their mouths together.

Even without the heat, Maglor _moans_ in delight. He stares at Eönwë a second later, then gives up his shock in favour of all the other sensations coursing through him. The kiss is light at first, but then Eönwë’s tongue is experimentally pressing at Maglor’s mouth, and he opens to suck Eönwë’s tongue inside. He’s kissed firmly, somewhat reserved, but warm and personal. He tilts his head to allow the best angle and keeps himself against Eönwë as long as he can. 

Eönwë is the first to slowly pull away, and he eyes Maglor’s mouth as he corrects, “No, I would _like_ if you would return with me.”

Maglor’s speechless and takes a moment to ask, half teasing and half incredulous, “Am I a prize horse?”

Eönwë smiles broader and answers, “No, but you would be a fitting one, for all I had favoured you and all the trouble you still put me through.” Maglor almost apologizes again but is frozen with the new knowledge that Eönwë _favoured him_. He was always interested but never played the thought out, thinking it foolish, arrogant, and impossible, and is shocked to have his interest returned. Eönwë asks, “Will you return with me, my songbird?”

Maglor tries to say _yes_ but can’t seem to find the word, so he just nods. Eönwë bestows him another kiss and steps away from him, smiling all the brighter. 

“Then we should celebrate, I think, the finding of my omega and for your bonding. Will you play me that song now, one of which I remember so fondly?”

Maglor is ecstatic and tries to still move with a calm grace as he steps around Eönwë and sets off for his quarters, this time Eönwë the one to follow him. In his bedroom, he takes his harp into his hands and plays Eönwë all his favourite songs, just as he used to before the stars were born.


End file.
